


Life Saver

by CollingwoodGirl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: B&E shenanigans, Beach Holidays, Breaking and Entering, Clothes Porn, F/M, Feminist Themes, Fluff and Smut, Jack in bathers, Lifeguard Jack, Lifeguards, Murder Mystery, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reunion, Smut, Swim Club, Swimming, Torquay, Torquay Life Saving Club, Undercover, Vintage clothing, beach pyjamas, blamefiresign, sea rescue, surf boats, this was supposed to be pwp + phryne in beach pyjamas and somehow acquired a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 15:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14876009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollingwoodGirl/pseuds/CollingwoodGirl
Summary: Once the taste of an adventure had tempted Phryne’s palate, there was little more that could satiate her. So when her return to the Antipodes had come sooner than planned, she had, naturally, been disappointed. But she looked forward to the opportunity of taking up where she and Jack had left off. That was three weeks and one urgent telegram ago.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was supposed to be a fun frolic through sand and sea, with plenty of eye candy, beach wear, and smut for last July's undercover trope. (Yes, you read that right.) I hope I managed to deliver on the last fronts because somehow, in spite of myself, this story acquired a ~~murder~~ plot right about the time I acquired a case of amnesia. (I forgot how to write.) Forgive me. (Provisionally?) 
> 
> Fair warning: I've taken a few liberties with some dodgy research citations but have strived to maintain historical accuracy with locales and - most importantly - the clothes porn. According to the Torquay Historical Society, the first Torquay Life Saving Club was formed in 1922, and its first home on the front beach was one of the larger bathing boxes. After WWII the club reformed as a surf club. The Torquay Surf Life Saving Club was established in 1945 and is still going strong.
> 
> Lots of love to everyone who cheered me on as I fought with this fic (Fire_Sign and Scruggzi, I'm looking at you) and, especially, to SarahToo - the best fullback a girl could hope for ❤️.
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism, as always, are welcome. Thank you, deeply and sincerely, for reading! XOXO, CG

“Alright, Miss?”

Despite the circumstances, The Honourable Phryne Fisher – outfitted in a crimson bathing costume with apricot piping – appeared only slightly less glamourous than usual as she hobbled through the knee-deep white caps.

Phryne wasn’t the sort to believe in fate. She didn’t believe in destiny. What she did believe in, however, was luck. And she was striking it bad in spades.

Once the taste of an adventure had tempted Phryne’s palate, there was little more that could satiate her. So when her return to the Antipodes had come sooner than planned, she had, naturally, been disappointed. But she looked forward to the opportunity of taking up where she and Jack had left off. That was three weeks and one urgent telegram ago:

 

CHANGE OF COURSE… STOP… DON’T COME… STOP… WINGING MY WAY HOME P

 

Her hopes had been dashed the moment Mr. Butler had taken her goggles and handed her an envelope with a familiar scrawl across the front. The enclosed note beggared belief.

 

Seconded to an assignment that will take me out of Melbourne. I’ll keep my eyes turned skyward in anticipation of your safe return. Yours, Jack.

 

Phryne would never admit aloud that part of her had longed for the Inspector to be waiting at the airfield – a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand falling, forgotten, to the ground as her lips met his. _I’m behaving like a schoolgirl_ , she had thought with disdain.

For days she’d scoured all the papers for a scrap of news that might point to Jack’s whereabouts, to no avail. Hugh Collins knew even less than she did and so, in a fit of bother, she’d picked her way into his flat to look for clues. Except for a photograph of herself peering cheekily through peek-a-boo glasses, she’d come up empty there, too.

Jack’s absence chafed. Worse, it appeared to be obvious. One look at Mac’s pitying expression over dinner one evening had Phryne booking herself on a seaside holiday, where she was just another tourist among many who sought the balm of the warm salt air – and could sulk as much as she pleased without reason or judgment.

She had left the Two Bays hotel at a time when good Anglicans were preparing for church, intent on a solitary morning swim to clear the clutter from her mind. Seemed a good idea at the time, she ruminated as she limped along in the wet sand.

A young man with deeply tanned skin and tightly curled brown hair jogged toward her. He couldn’t have been much older than sixteen but his stance was assured, his gaze measured, as he looked her over for injuries. Apparently satisfied she wasn’t in any immediate danger, he fell into step beside her.

“Yer favorin’ yer left leg. It ain’t safe to be out on yer own, ya know. No one’s on duty fer another hour, an’ them rips can pull you right out if ya ain’t careful.”

“I wasn’t alone. In fact, it’s the company that’s the problem.” Phryne replied, twisting her knee to reveal a squiggly blue tentacle stuck to the back of her calf. “Bluebottle, if I’m not mistaken.”

He winced in empathy. “May I?”

Phryne offered him her leg without hesitation, and he smiled in relief. She wondered how often he’d tendered his assistance and been rebuffed for the obvious drop of Aboriginal blood that ran in his veins.

With a firm hold on the beastie’s translucent float, he stripped the tentacle away from her skin and showed her the specimen. It glowed violet in the sun’s morning rays.

“I’d almost think it pretty if my leg wasn’t on fire,” she said ruefully.

He laughed, chucking the jelly back toward deep water, and turned around just in time to stop her from rubbing a handful of sand on the wound.

“But—” she complained.

“No buts. Mr. Jones says that’s hogwash. ‘Scuse the language, miss, but the sand only makes it worse. First, he says we gotta rinse it in the surf. Then we need hot water to stop the stingin’.”

She hummed noncommittally, but didn’t stop him from scooping handfuls of seawater over her leg. “This Mr. Jones is an expert, is he?”

“Sure is,” he replied, light green eyes shining with pride as he pointed to the embroidered crest on his bathers. “Torquay Life Saving Club. Lonnie Harris at your service.”

“Phryne Fisher,” she offered with a weak smile, pulling off her bathing cap and ruffling her hair with her fingers. “And if you can stop the stinging, it’ll be quite the other way around.” The whinging in her voice wasn’t exactly on par with her most flirtatious effort but Lonnie Harris blushed anyway.

Phryne’s straw tote dangled from the crux of Lonnie’s elbow as they made their way up the beach. A strapping blond, sporting the same club crest as her current companion, called out to them. The blond looked a bit older than Lonnie and had a beautiful physique – of which he was keenly aware if his modernly cut suit was anything to go by.

“Lonnie! Come on for Christs’sake! Gramps is waitin’ for—”

“The lady’s been stung, mate. Man O’ War. Ask Mr. Jones if ya can run up to Molyneaux’s fer hot water. We’re heading t’ the sheds.”

His clubmate had the good sense to look apologetic before giving a thumbs-up. Phryne clicked her tongue appreciatively as she watched the second man turn and sprint ahead. Perhaps her fortune was changing.

The Torquay Life Saving Club operated out of a large, weatherworn bathing box on the foreshore. Its pitched gables bore the club name in a painstaking hand. From within it, Lonnie extracted a blanket for Miss Fisher to recline upon and checked her vital signs while they waited for the hot water. He was staking her parasol in the sand when the same handsome blond they’d encountered earlier stepped out.

“Caught yourself a mermaid, didn’t you, Lon?” the blond asked, flashing a winning smile. “Name’s Tom Finley. I’m the club captain. Don’t reckon you’re from ‘round here, miss. I’m sure I could never forget a face like yours.”

Phryne introduced herself with as much graciousness as the throbbing in her leg would allow when her young benefactor stepped between them.

“Tom,” Lonnie hissed. “You were s’pposed t’ go fer the water.”

“Keep your suit on,” Finley told the younger boy. “Gramps insisted on taking the bicycle himself.”

“Stop callin’ him that!”

Finley laughed derisively. “Why should I? He’s old enough to be.”

Lonnie ignored the remark and turned to Miss Fisher, whose brow had furrowed at the implication her recovery lay in the hands of a withering, old man. “Don’t worry, miss. Mr. Jones is faster on two wheels than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

“He’s been here less than a fortnight and you’re mooning over him,” Finley grumbled.

“’M not _moonin’_. You saw him resuscitate the Mason boy with yer own eyes, same as I did. He’s really good. ‘Sides, yer just sore ‘cuz you’re not charge while Coach Naughton’s out.”

“I’m sore because the championship qualifier is coming up next month and Jones doesn’t give a damn!”

“Gentlemen!” a voice barked from just beyond the bathing sheds, causing both lads to scuttle toward him and stand at attention.

_For all his complaining_ , Phryne considered, _Mr. Finley certainly fell in line in short order_. The new coach must have made quite an impression. She leaned beyond the circle of her parasol to get a better look but the sun was directly in her eyes, casting the man in shadow, the breaking waves muffled their voices.

“Problem?” the coach asked, eyes darting between the two boys.

“No problem,” Finley pouted. “I just think we ought to practice more for the championships. We’ve finally got a good enough team to win and Coach Naughton goes and does a bunk… and we’re left with—”

“You’re left with me,” Jones finished, not entirely without sympathy. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of competition…. brings out the spirit. But our priority,” he reminded them, warning etched in every syllable, “is the safety of our beachgoers. Not a tin trophy. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir,” they answered in tandem.

“Good.” He propped the bike against the shed and pulled two large thermoses from the bag strapped across his back. “Now, I understand we have a guest in our care. Who can give me the particulars?”

“Female, sir. Late twenties, I reckon. And in excellent ah… physical condition but fer the bluebottle sting on the back of her left leg.” Lonnie gestured toward the figure beneath the parasol, biting back a boyish grin he was certain wouldn’t be tolerated while on duty. “She was walkin’ to shore on her own accord when I found her. Breathin’s normal.”

“That’s a good sign. Not allergic to the venom, then.”

“Don’t look like it, sir. Still, it must smart.”

“Too right,” Jones concurred. “Let’s go patch her up.”

Tom Finley bragging that he’d toughed it through more than a dozen stings in one season alone as he pushed ahead of Lonnie toward the injured beauty.

“For the water treatment,” Finley explained, planting a metal bucket in the sand near the lady’s feet. He threw a handful of magnesium salts into the bucket and then offered her an upturned palm as though she were Cinderella about to be fitted with the glass slipper.

Phryne, never one to turn down such attractive assistance, dazzled him with a smile and placed the foot of her injured leg into Tom’s waiting hand.

“You can always be counted on for chivalry, Mr. Finley,” the coach muttered, rolling his eyes at the self-styled Casanova and passing the thermoses to decant. “Slowly now,” Jones instructed, “So she gets accustomed to the temperature.”

Phryne’s whole body went rigid. Tom assumed she was anticipating the worst from the unusual medical treatment, and implored all his charm to try to calm her.

But nothing Finley did made any difference, because that it wasn’t the treatment she had reacted to. That wasn’t it _at all_. It was…

_…that voice_.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s all downhill from here, miss,” Jones said reassuringly. “The water’s going to be about as hot as you can stand, but the pain should ease straight away.” A long, sinewy shadow slowly stretched across the blanket, as the coach rounded the parasol to have a closer look.

Phryne was soon confronted by a pair of tanned, athletic legs that were strikingly familiar – from the well-formed calves, to the knobbly knees, to the surreal musculature of his thighs.

_One does not forget when a man as firmly buttoned up as Jack Robinson sheds his armour for a bathing costume._

White sand glittered against his skin, trapped by tendrils of fine, light hair. Unable to help the beatific smile spreading across her face, she doffed her wide-brimmed hat, revealing herself to his gaze. She looked up at him with twinkling eyes.

“Hallo Ja–” she caught herself just in time and coughed to cover her mistake. “Jones. Mister Jones, isn’t it?”

Jack’s mouth dropped open in a shock that had as much to do with the obvious surprise on her face as it did with Phryne Fisher turning up in the place he had been ordered undercover. _She hadn’t known he would be here_.

Lonnie – possessing neither Tom’s polished features nor his confidence around members of the fairer sex – understood feeling flustered in the face of a woman as extraordinary as this one. He swiftly stepped in to save his mentor from embarrassment.

“Miss Fisher, this is Mr. Jones, my coach. Mr. Jones, Miss Phryne Fisher of— I’m sorry, miss. In all the commotion, I never asked where you were from.”

“Melbourne,” she replied, her eyes following the line of Jack’s traditional bathing costume – which did little to conceal his very fit physique – up to broad, sunkissed shoulders, the long line of throat she longed to taste, and the well-loved face that had appeared so often in her dreams. He looked upon her with fond eyes.

She extended her fingers so he would have little choice but to take her hand or risk offense. To her satisfaction, he shook it, the pad of his thumb strumming across her knuckles as a bow on a string. She shivered.

Finley, who had just poured the last of the scalding water against her leg, yelped an apology thinking it had been his carelessness that had made her twinge. “Sorry, miss! I should have been more careful.”

Feeling caught, Phryne instantly released Jack’s hand without releasing his eyes. “That’s quite alright, Mr. Finley,” she cooed, her voice taking on a slightly higher octave than usual, “I was just taken off-guard. It’s not your fault.”

Finley cast his eyes toward his coach, whose mouth had twisted into strange shape – neither smile nor scowl. _Now he’d done it._ Jones dismissed him with a curt tick of his head.

“Have we met, Mr. Jones?” she asked, all innocence and spun sugar.

A familiar smirk smouldered in the lines of Jack’s mouth, knowing her reaction wasn’t due to the heat of the water. “I was never a life saver in Melbourne, Miss Fisher.”

“You’re quite sure about that?”

The earnestness in her voice nearly felled him to his knees to kiss her.

Phryne’s attention was suddenly hijacked by the sensation of fingertips along the back of her submerged leg.

“Just making sure Mister Harris removed all the tentacles.” His voice roughened, his lie obvious. He was aching for a reason to touch her. “And call me Archie,” he said, swallowing hard. “Everyone else does.”

“Very well, Archie,” she hummed.

___Really, it was the most incredible luck to have found both Jack and a mystery to solve – and with such an obliging dress code._ _ _

Phryne leaned back on her hands, stretching her body, and swished her foot in the water. Water droplets splashed onto Jack’s thigh. “You and your team are quite something. I’m feeling better already.”

Lonnie, unaware of the unspoken conversation unfolding before him, looked rather pleased with himself.

“That hot water treatment really works a treat, donnit? Still, you should rest fer a bit, Miss Fisher,” he babbled, reminding Phryne of an eager puppy. “You could stay an’ watch mornin’ drills if you like?” Lonnie pointed to the access road. “Here come the others now.”

Phryne’s eyes followed, glittering at the promise of such pleasant company, to see a horde of smooth, tan, muscular men in crested swimwear descend upon the foreshore. Two young women in bathers of their own stood atop a nearby dune and surveyed the scene with unveiled disgust. One of them shouted at the group and was tugged away by her friend to practise their own sets of calisthenics further down the beach.

“Are there no lady life savers in your club?” Phryne asked.

Lonnie looked down at his feet. “There was one, miss. But she drowned the day she made squad.”

“How awful!”

Jack’s expression was unreadable. Between the intrigue and the scenery, he would no sooner be able dissuade Phryne from the beach than raise the tide with a staff.

“A tragedy by all accounts. But as it’s our charge to prevent such _accidents_ —” Jack baited, watching Tom Finley bristle. “It’s best we get down to business.”

Phryne watched as Jack put the life savers through their paces.

On Mr. Jones’ orders, they dragged out the alarm reel and took turns on the rig at every station. The first beltman was a bronzed burly brunette called Errol, who cut through the foam like a selkie, dragging the heavy rescue line behind him. Lonnie manned the reel, unspooling the line in time to the beltman’s pace. In between them, the other men guided the line over their heads and into the surf to ensure it wouldn’t get snagged.

Jack’s natural leadership was an obvious asset on this assignment. He coached them at every stand. When it came time to practice the three-man lift, he asked Tom Finley to take point, allowing him to preen a bit in front of the crew. The whole team then took to the water for a swim beyond the breakers and back. And when Jack emerged, glistening from the surf, Phryne managed to forget there was ever such a thing as a bluebottle.

“Well done, gentlemen,” their coach praised. “Afternoon shift is dismissed. Morning shift, get to your stations... And don’t forget, no one—”

“Goes it alone!” his men chorused back.

“That’s the way,” he affirmed, returning to assess their patient – who was looking rather breathless for someone simply reclining on the beach. “Did we bore you to exhaustion?” he teased, pushing his wet hair from his forehead.

“Don’t be silly,” she crooned. “I adore watching men exert themselves.” Her eyes drifted down to his lips. If she kissed him now, she thought, he would taste of the sea. “It makes me wonder what other talents you might possess… Such as your skill in administering mouth-to-mouth.”

Phryne had forgotten how red the tips of Jack Robinson’s ears flushed when he blushed. She did not mean to forget again.

His toes shifted around in the sand as he tried to find his footing. He cleared his throat and nodded toward her injured leg, changing the subject to something less dangerous. “That’s been submerged long enough. Let’s have a look.”

She removed her leg from the now tepid water and rose to her knees, twisting at the hips to watch him trace the red mark along the width of her calf with a fingertip cold from the surf.

“Nasty sting. Always attracting the wrong sort of attention,” Jack clucked fondly as Phryne rolled her eyes. “Does it still hurt?”

“Far less than it did earlier. And here I thought I was the medic. My father always told us to rub sand on a jellyfish sting.”

Jack smiled. “I think we can agree that your father’s been wrong on more than one occasion.”

“How very diplomatic of you.” She reached out her fingers to brush against his. “Is that why they chose you for this job?”

“I can’t talk about it here,” he whispered. “Meet me at the club shed at midnight.” He patted her leg dry with a towel and got to his feet. “And if it starts to hurt again or you feel faint,” he instructed, loud enough for anyone to hear, “Have someone telephone Doctor Murphy. He keeps a clinic in town during the summer holidays.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

Lonnie and Tom nodded to Miss Fisher, wishing her well, as they ran past her to the shed to retrieve their whistles and binoculars. She waggled her fingers at them, causing a stir of envy among the other club members.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m sorry,” said the young man behind the polished counter at the Two Bays Hotel, not looking very sorry at all. “Miss Fisher was quite clear. She’s not to be disturbed. Don’t think she’s feelin’ her best. She took supper in her rooms.”

“But that’s why I’m here,” whined Tom Finley. “I came to check on her.”

“Sure,” Reg replied, with a sidelong glance at the bouquet in his friend’s hand and the university sweater worn proudly over his best tie. “And those are, what? Medicinal?”

“Didn’t I help you score with that bird from Bendigo? The one with the thing for boats?”

“She had a thing for _sail_ boats, not that cockleshell my gramps left me.”

“Point is, I helped you out, mate.”

“I guess I owe you one for that,” he conceded, pouting. Reg knew he wasn’t an unattractive bloke but Tom had a way with the ladies he couldn’t match even on his best day. “Still… more’n my job’s worth to let you back there. Mrs. Windemere—”

“I can handle Mrs. Windemere. C’mon, mate! Please?”

Reg shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nothing doing. You can charm the smalls off Miss Fisher another time, when I’m not on duty.” His mouth curled into an ugly smirk. “Besides, you know what they say.” Reg cast his gaze meaningfully over Tom’s shoulder. “A bird in the hand—"

“Tom!” a soft voice gushed. “I mean, hello. I didn’t expect to see you.”

Tess Watson and her mother were down from Ballarat on holiday. Her leaf-green gown brought out the colour of her eyes. A gold bangle glittered on her wrist as she tucked a curl of blonde hair behind her ear. She noticed Tom looking at it, and self-consciously touched the gleaming circlet.

“Father sent it for my birthday. He’d hoped to be able to join us but his latest trial is going long.” She looked hopefully at the bunch of flowers in his hand. “Are those for me?”

 _Yesterday, they surely would have been_ , Tom thought. He had been pursuing Miss Watson – the latest in a series of conquests he was rather proud of – since she had arrived in the seaside town a fortnight ago. But that was before he’d met Miss Fisher. Still, _a bird in the hand…_

Tom extended the small bouquet, and her face flushed in delight. “Happy Birthday!”

Reg cleared his throat. “Yes, happy birth—”

“Thank you,” she exclaimed, her eyes only for Tom, and brought the flowers to her face and inhaling deeply. “Mother and I were just heading to the ballroom.” She gestured toward a pleasant-looking woman in a silk wrap a shade darker than her own frock, who was chatting happily to another guest. “Would you care to join us?”

Tom plastered his most charming smile to his face and replied that he would, silently hoping that the sweet sounds of the band might eventually entice Miss Fisher from her room.

“No, no,” muttered Reg, sarcasm dripping from every click of his tongue as he watched them go. “I couldn’t possibly.”

 

**************************** 

 

A dance of another kind had been on Phryne’s mind when she’d topped her black silk cat suit with the beret she considered _de rigueur_ for break-and-enters. Midnight was still hours away and she’d had well enough waiting. It took some careful detecting on her part but she’d learned that Archie Jones was already well-regarded in town and could be found renting a room at a boarding house on Munday Street.

The house was a stone’s throw from the backbeach trails and camping ground. From her perch, high up on the rose trellis, she could just make out the moonlight dancing on the water. Phryne had narrowed Jack’s room down to one of the two on the south-facing side. Deciding the trellis was the easiest point of access, she’d taken a gamble and opted to try the window closest to it. She pulled a compact from her décolletage and held it over her head, aiming the mirror into the room and casting it about for a sign of anything familiar. Then, she spotted it – a gold tie hanging in the open wardrobe.

With a solid grip on the sash, Phryne pushed hard off her right foot, somersaulting through the open window. And onto Jack’s bed.

He leaped up in surprise, knocking his Collected Shakespeare to the floor, and blew out a steadying breath. He was dressed only in frox and trousers – obviously not expecting company. His braces, still buttoned at the waist, hung loosely past his hips and his feet were bare. Vexation was etched in every line of his face.

“I thought we agreed on midnight at the sheds,” he hissed.

“Curiosity got the better of me.”

“Mister Jo-ones?” a nasally voice sing-songed from downstairs. “Is everything alright?”

“Ah, yes, Missus O’Leary. Fine,” he called, cracking the door and stepping out into the hall. “Just, ah, fell asleep and dropped my book.” Jack pulled his lips into an apologetic grimace, holding up the heavy tome as evidence.

The landlady harrumphed and bade him be more careful. There were others in her care to consider, after all – though perhaps none quite as handsome or polite as Mr. Jones. Such fine traits warranted some leniency.

“Of course. My apologies. It won’t happen again,” Archie Jones assured in his most earnest voice, and was relieved to find his explanation accepted. He latched the door.

Phryne had moved stealthily, without a sound, so that when he turned she was mere inches from him, sponging her incisor with the tip of her tongue. Sleek in all black, she was sizing him up like a very hungry jungle cat. Jack made to take a step back but only succeeded in bumping his crown against the door.

“Been practicing your acting chops while I was away?”

Her lips were on his before he could make a reply, and the book nearly crashed to the floor a second time.

It had been a long time since she had _wanted_ something with such abandon. Phryne wasn’t shy about indulging the occasional whim, willing to follow wherever chance might lead. She made no excuses for enjoying the sensual pleasures of life, taking where it was freely given and mutually desired. Even so, most of her decisions were usually well-calculated – the risks accounted for and balanced with as many advantages as she could manage. Despite all outward appearances, Phryne Fisher actually preferred to play it safe. She entrusted her well-being to a chosen few. She entrusted her heart to no one.

 _Nearly no one._ Because there was nothing safe in the way she kissed him.

Her mouth was greedy. Her hands, selfish. The press of her body laid her intent bare. They had not discussed _this_. They had made no promises. If in their time apart he had decided not to take the risk, there would be no veil of coyness to hide behind. No shroud of misunderstanding to shield her from the pain.

A tremor began to quake within her as his free hand anchored beneath her ear to gently break the kiss. Just before they parted, she had felt the plushness of his lips give way to the hard, polished surface of his teeth. _The sonofabitch was smiling._ The corner of his mouth had curled into a smug nautilus – and Phryne couldn’t decide whether to slug him or kiss him again.

“I missed you, too,” he said, holding her gaze and mincing no words. The sheer veracity of the statement unnerved her. She had missed him – far more than she had expected to when she had allowed herself to consider it.

She opened her mouth to protest but Jack was faster.

“How’s your leg?”

“What? Oh that,” she replied sheepishly, remembering the bluebottle sting. It seemed an age ago – before Jack had reappeared in her life, springing forth from the froth like a gift from the gods. “It’s fine. Much better.”

“Good,” he murmured, pushing his treasured Shakespeare into her hands. “Hold this.”

When the book was firmly cradled in her arms, he took her face into his hands and kissed her back with nothing of the frenzy of the airfield or the fear of Café Repliqué. He anointed her lips and cheeks and throat with the lightest brushes and barely perceptible nips. The kiss was Jack at his most indolent, and it made her blood pound.

___How does one devour a black jungle cat? One bite at a time._ _ _

He lost himself in the taste of her mouth – sucking idly on her velvet tongue and offering his own in return. Despite all odds, Phryne Fisher had returned. What’s more, she had returned _to him_. Found him by chance – her compass drawn off-course by his own iron signature. Under the circumstances, Jack felt as though he had nothing but time.

Feeling the book slip against his torso, he was forced to relinquish her. Another kerfuffle would most certainly draw the lady of the house’s attention – and Jack would rather not have to explain the presence of his unannounced guest.

He smiled in earnest this time – a wide, cheek-lifting grin that so changed his countenance, he appeared another man entirely. There in his eyes was the softness she had only seen on the most sparing occasions.

“Jack—”

He pressed a forefinger to her lips, then curled it, bidding her to follow. Jack crossed the room, laid his book atop a battered writing desk, and flicked on a small wireless. He’d had second thoughts about packing the luxury (especially when he’d had to explain the source of that _infernal noise_ to Mrs. O’Leary), but was now rather grateful he had. Twiddling the dial until a station came into tune, he adjusted the volume and turned its speaker toward the door. Not for the first time did Phryne consider exactly what Jack might have done in the War.

“There. That should take care of any curious ears,” he pronounced, under the cover of a jazz orchestra. They were crooning about _Blue Skies_. “I’m afraid the room wasn’t designed for entertaining.” He gestured toward the very limited seating options. “Would you prefer—”

“You know I don’t stand on ceremony, Jack,” Phryne said wickedly. “The bed suits me fine.” She removed her beret, ruffling her hair with one hand, and perched on the corner of his mattress—bringing all manner of long-held memories and fantasies to mind.

“It’s _Archie,_ if you please,” he snipped, snagging the desk chair by its top rung with a vein-knotted hand. “I still have a cover to maintain and I’d prefer not to be both evicted _and_ outed if we’re caught.”

Phryne thought it a rather promising sign that he didn’t trust himself to sit beside her. “I don’t intend to be caught.”

Jack twisted the chair until its ladder-back was flush with the bed. The smirk that had begun to curl her lips evaporated as he straddled the chair and whispered darkly into her ear. “By someone other than me, you mean?”

She shivered. _This is what she had missed._ This …way… they had with each other. Of challenging… of provoking… of understanding.

His question quickly ranked among her favourites.   _Have you met my twin brother?  How many colours shall I order this in?  Would you like me to improve on it?_

She pushed the intruding thoughts away when she felt her skin ripple under his gaze – _blue skies_ nowhere in sight. She understood his need for a barrier. He was a typhoon. A swirling passionate storm hovering just offshore, with the power to pull her under at the slightest change in pressure.

“Naturally,” she said, not bothering to hide her own breathlessness. “It’s always enjoyable to be caught by you, Detective Inspector.”

The last two words were both over-enunciated and barely audible, and Jack felt them more than he heard them.

“Miss Fisher—” Her name snagged in his throat as his larynx bobbled with nerves.

“Archie,” she interrupted, employing that lilting tone that drove him to distraction, regardless of what name she called him. “I’d like very much to know one thing before I invite you to leave the safety of your perch and make love to me.”

Too overcome by her suggestion to speak, he lifted his brows in question.

“I’m in Torquay on holiday,” she said, tracing the constellations of freckles on his shoulder with a narrow fingertip. “Why are _you_ here?”

Awkwardly, he removed himself from the chair to fish about in his shaving kit. To his credit, he didn’t make any apologies for the snugness of his trousers despite blushing furiously. He extracted a steel nail file and directed her to apply it to the floorboard just beyond her toes, under the shadow of the bed.

Jack poured them decent whisky from a bottle he’d stowed in a drawer with his clean socks, while Phryne extracted a box that had been wedged between the floor joists. In it were Jack’s badge, his revolver, and a notebook stuffed with newspaper clippings. He offered her the first sip from a chipped porcelain cup before taking a swig of his own.

“Looks like quite a few young women would like to join your life saving club,” she stated rhetorically, as her eyes swept across the field of newsprint spread before her. An article from the _Geelong Advertiser_ reported on a series of petitions filed, and the relenting of the club’s former coach, William Naughton, to allow the girls to try out for a placement.

“Only one made the cut. A Marjoram Tipton, aged nineteen. Beautiful girl,” Phryne said, running her fingertips over the photograph that accompanied the story. “Took home medals for her ladies’ college team. By all accounts, an accomplished swimmer.”

She heard Jack tut his agreement but her attention was elsewhere. One of the clippings was worn and smudged, and she picked it up with interest. “This says she was found the next morning floating near the rocks in her bathing costume. Reports of alcohol found in her system.”

Jack nodded grimly. “Her death was ruled accidental.”

“Was there an inquest?” she asked, rifling through the newspapers.

“There was.” Jack replenished her drink from the bottle of Highland Queen on the desk. “According to witnesses, Miss Tipton spent the evening celebrating with her two friends, Adeline Murray and Susan Beckwith. I believe you spotted them at the beach this morning. The three of them were rumoured to be—” he paused, certain he wouldn’t be repeating the exact phrase uttered to him, “—romantically involved.”

“And have you confirmed that rumour?” Phryne replied.

“The three women appeared to share a rather unique friendship. But all I can confirm is that they’ve been inseparable since they were children. They testified that on the night in question, they’d been celebrating with Miss Tipton in the ladies’ lounge of the local pubic house. The bartender gave corroborating testimony. After consuming two rounds of shandies, they paid their tab and headed their separate ways home. No one claims to have seen her again that night.”

“Two beers are hardly enough to flatten a carthorse. If Marjoram never went home, how did she come to be in her swimwear?”

“Susan Beckwith’s family keeps a bathing box that she and her friends were allowed to use. The police found the clothes Marjoram Tipton wore to the pub inside.”

He handed Phryne a sheet of paper, folded in thirds. “Coroner’s Report. No bruising. No defensive wounds. No evidence of trauma. Hymen was intact, indicating she died a virgin. Free water in the stomach along with traces of alcohol, and her lungs were engorged and waterlogged. Brain congested with blood from asphyxia.”

“It says, ‘Inflammation to the esophagus indicates possible gastric aspiration.’ She vomited?”

Jack nodded. “All consistent with drowning. It’s surmised that she decided to go for a moonlight swim. On her own and quite possibly intoxicated. Never to return to the land of the living.”

“And there’s no evidence to the contrary.”

“None whatsoever. I’ve been through the file cover to cover.”

“One of Marjoram’s friends may have been jealous that she was leaving them to spend her time amidst more masculine company. It’s possible one or both could have invited her to the bathing box and plied her with more alcohol. Any reason to doubt their story?”

“The girls all tried out for the squad together with the knowledge that there was only one opening. And based on my investigation so far, I’m not inclined to believe that either girl had a hand in her death but I can’t rule it out.”

“Not to seem unsympathetic to poor Marjoram Tipton, but I’m not sure I understand why you’re on this case instead of the Geelong inspector.”

“Miss Tipton’s mother is a childhood friend of the commissioner’s wife. The initial line of questioning never pointed to foul play but my chief wasn’t convinced.”

Phryne studied the lines of Jack’s face. “And neither are you, I’d say.”

He took a steady draught of whisky and pulled his mouth into a wan smile. “According to Mrs. Tipton, her daughter’s aim to join the Torquay Life Saving Club didn’t sit well with some of its members.”

“The former coach?”

“Watertight alibi,” he replied, adding “Pardon the expression,” when Phryne rolled her eyes. “Naughton went to War with Marjoram’s father. He’s the one who taught her how to swim. The families were having dinner together the night of her death. The local sergeant said he cried like a baby when he heard the news, and took leave as manager of the club.”

“Hmmm. Then, someone whose male pride was threatened by a talented woman.”

“You’re thinking of Tom Finley,” Jack said. There was no need to read her mind when she read the clues so fluently.

“What do you know about him?”

Jack shook his head and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. “He’s from a respectable family here in town and in his second year at university. Good marks, well thought of by his professors and peers. He’s been on the volunteer squad since he was fourteen, and has a reputation for being a ladies’ man and a daredevil. He’s a vocal critic of women joining the club but his date on the evening in question confirmed his alibi.”

“And, so, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

It was a soldier’s oath. A policeman’s oath. She took the cup from his hands and moved past him to replace it on the desk. Jack felt the warm press of her breasts on either side of his spine as her hands circled his waist, tugging his shirt loose. “And, now, so am I.”

“Phryne—”

She knew that tone. Standing before him, her arched eyebrow dared him to tell her to go home, to get herself out of danger, to let him handle it on his own. “Archie—” she warned.

The space between them contracted as they stared each other down, each as mule-stubborn as the other.

Jack hesitated, considering his options. “You’re not going to go home, are you?” he asked, rather unnecessarily.

“Not without you.” Because ambulance drivers and lady detectives made solemn oaths, too.

He nodded once – more of a flick of his chin than any real movement – but Phryne saw it for the acceptance it was.

“Good,” she said, kissing him softly. “Now, about that invitation… I hope you’ve considered your answer. Make love to me, Archie?”

“Forget what I said about not using my name,” Jack growled, pulling his frox over his head in a long, smooth motion, and dragging her to his naked chest. “Just—” he nuzzled into her neck. “Just do it quietly.”

“If you insist.” Phryne bit her lip to keep from mewling in delight. “Make love to me, _Jack Robinson_.”

She was as good as her word, and so very, very bad that it was he who could not stay quiet.

Jack moaned against the heel of her hand, coming hard beneath her for the second time in half as many hours. Needing more air in his lungs to regain his breath, he nipped at her palm until she released him.

“At this rate,” he panted cheerfully, “You may end up having to resuscitate _me_.”

She dismounted with a twirl and cozied up beside him. A Viennese Waltz lilted from the wireless, its quickened rhythm echoing the beat of his heart.

“From what I saw on that beach today, I can’t imagine stamina is going to be a problem.” _How very fortunate._ Phryne considered stamina a most excellent quality in a man. Her tongue connected with a bead of sweat trickling past his ear, and he gasped, his nipples hardening under the strokes of her fingers. “Rather keen, too,” she chuckled.

It was her turn to lose her breath when he grasped her wrists in a police-hold and rolled her onto her back to kiss her – inhaling the sounds of her pleasure as his free hand teased the orb of her breast.

“Do you mind?” he asked as earnestly as he could with his cock pressing into her belly.

She gazed up at him with soft eyes, lifting her hips to take him inside her again. “Never.”

Sated from their exertions, they lay together in contented silence. Jack found himself addicted to the texture of her skin. Even now, with his arms full of her, it was not enough simply to hold Phryne. Ghosting his hand down her back, he applied featherlight strokes that made her shiver. Bathed in moonlight, her damp, ivory skin glinted silver. His, coloured deeper with sun, gleamed gold.

Phryne purred from the pillow of his chest, a rhythmic roil of breath that kept time with a sleepy rendition of _Russian Lullaby, …Somewhere there may be a land that's free for you and me…_

__

“Is this how you imagined us being together for the first time?”

__

Jack spluttered at the directness of her question – which forced him to recall some of the more prurient scenes he had ever entertained. He cleared his throat and felt her smile at his chagrin. “Can’t say it was. But I’ve learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to you.”

__

“Wise,” she hummed. “If a bit boring.”

__

“Never thought you’d be such a cuddler, though.” He expected the jab to his ribs when it followed, a second later.

__

“Too bad, Jack. You’ve made your bed and now, you’ll just have to lie in it.”

__

“Damn the luck,” he husked, pressing a kiss into her hair and tugging her tighter into the circle of his arms. “And what about you? How many indecency laws did you have me breaking?”

__

“Too many to count,” she admitted. “But there was a lovely bear rug at Mother and Father’s. I had hopes of ravishing you on it.”

__

“What happened, if I may ask?”

__

“To the bear? Shot, most likely.”

__

Jack pinched her bottom. “Cheek for cheek,” he replied wickedly, silencing her squeal with a kiss. He nuzzled her nose with his own. “You don’t have to tell me.”

__

Just as she had invited Jack to be with her – rather than assuming it was a given – Phryne appreciated the out he was offering. Had she changed her grand plans out of fear or regret, she might have taken it. As it stood, it was neither – so he talked and he listened.

__

Phryne told him the tale of her flight to England. Of how hard she had fought the urge to simply loop de loop her father into the drink – he could hardly become any wetter, and she preferred seawater to alcohol as the medium. Of the weeks she had endured in her parents’ company. Delivered safely into Margaret’s forgiving arms, Henry had been as insufferable as ever, and she had bolted at the first opportunity – a letter from Jane.

__

They’d met at the Gare de Lyon, Phyrne intending salvage the trip by sharing the splendid sights of Spain and the Mediterranean with her ward. But, she explained, it had become increasingly apparent that the charms of the Continent had worn thin on the girl, who spoke wistfully of home and worriedly about the financial crisis in America. When Jane had betrayed the maturity of her chic new haircut by bursting into tears at the mention of Dot and Mr. Butler, Phryne had booked her on a first-class steamer headed for Melbourne, promising to meet her there.

__

“So,” Jack said, his brow bowing in confusion. “If you’re to meet Jane in Melbourne, why are you on holiday?”

__

She would forevermore blame it on a trick of the moonlight but, in that moment, Jack was certain Phryne Fisher had blushed.

__

“Jane’s not due in port for another two weeks, and, well—” she tucked her head into his shoulder and huffed. It was easier to whisper the confession into the softness of his throat. “Melbourne wasn’t the same without you in it.”

__

It disarmed him to think she might have felt the loss of his presence as acutely as he had hers – and he could not tease her for it. Not yet, anyway. Not when their understanding was a dewy fragile thing, newly hatched. He held her close.

__

It was a long time before he finally broke the silence and, with it, the illusion of immortality that follows such revelations.

__

Phryne felt the strain in Jack’s limbs as he tried not to betray his worry. “I shouldn’t have been surprised when you turned up in the middle of my murder investigation.”

__

“No,” she agreed, carded her fingers through his forelock, “You really shouldn’t have.”

__

She slipped away just after dawn, leaving him to drift in a gauzy somnolence until the laugh of a kookaburra woke him for good. Jack stretched his limbs, enjoying the pleasant and well-earned ache of muscles long-since used. With a boyish grin on his face, he sprang out of bed and spent the next quarter of an hour tidying up.

__

He lit the stub of a candle only to extinguish it – hoping the sulphuric tang would quell the scent of lust that hung in the air, heavy and ripe like a peach. The bedlinens were then swept off the mattress with a well-practised series of pulls and tugs. Better to have them bundled up and ready to send out for laundering than beg uncomfortable questions about the origins of French perfume.

__

A cat bath from the porcelain jug set his person to rights and so, when he was through, no evidence remained of his overnight guest – save the bruises on his skin and the spring in his step.

__

They had made no promises and, yet, he had not felt a moment’s hesitation in accepting her invitation. He no longer wished to deny himself the experience of loving her – of being loved by her in return. Even more surprisingly, he harboured no regrets. What she had offered wasn’t a lifebuoy to be grabbed at desperately by a drowning man. Jack Robinson wasn’t in need of saving – he could tread water. No. She had dived in to meet him, despite the dangers lurking in the deep. _As deep as an ocean._

__

With a bellyful of tea, toast, and Mrs. O’Leary’s rubbery eggs, Archie Jones set off on his rented bicycle for another day at the foreshore. Of course, no day was going to be _just another day_ with Miss Fisher bringing her considerable assets to bear. He grinned to himself at the thought.

__

The one downside to her sudden appearance was that the investigation was bound to wrap more quickly than had he been going it alone. While no good could come of prolonging the arrest of a murderer, Jack was going to miss this assignment.

__

Beyond what starting the day with one’s toes in the sand did for one’s outlook, he took a great deal of satisfaction in coaching the club. He’d earned his own Bronze Medallion at fifteen but when his father had fallen to poor health, he didn’t have time for anything but the books if he wanted early admittance to the Police Academy. Life saving was part skill, part vigilance. He had the skill. And after spending half his life in the surveillance business, Jack knew a thing or two about vigilance.

__

Suffused with a surety he had not felt in years, he stood up in the pedals and hammered the last few blocks to the beach.

__

 

__


	4. Chapter 4

“You called me _coach_ ,” Archie Jones replied, with measured skepticism, after his men had completed morning drills. “That must mean you want something.”

Finley didn’t attempt to deny it. “Well, I thought perhaps we could trot out the surf boat, sir. We haven’t been able to practise in ages, what with the crowds every day.” He gestured around to the empty beach. “It’s still early.”

“Mister Finley,” Jack began, and the sternness in the expression was enough to cloud Finley’s face with disappointment. “That is a well-reasoned request. Granted.”

“What?”

“I believe, as captain, you have a key to the boat shed?”

“Umm... yes.”

“Is your crew ready?”

A hearty round of “Yessir!” went up from the club at large. The lads who’d never set a foot in the surf boat were keen to watch the spectacle.

“Good. You have three minutes to get the boat back here and ready to launch.”

Nobody moved. “What are you waiting for?” Jack asked with no small amount if incredulity. “Go!”

Looks of astonishment spread into grins as they took off, feet pounding in the sand. He couldn’t help his snicker when he overheard Lonnie Harris brag, “Told you he was alright!”

With seconds to spare, the sleek wooden long boat was kissing the water’s edge. Her christened name, _White Wings_ , was stenciled along her hull.

Racing boats was a popular sport in surf carnivals but they were still quite useful for deep water rescues. The five-man crew launched the vessel into the surf, paddling out past the small whitecaps and out to the larger swells, while the others cheered them on from the beach.

Errol, the largest of the crew, took the stabilizing second stroke position while Tom took his place as the sweep. With his long rudder in hand, Tom steered _White Wings_ through the waves while the oarsmen rowed to a rhythm set by the fourth chair. They shifted their weights from bow to stern, keeping the boat’s nose high as they crested the breakers. When they had manoeuvered the boat as far out as they were willing to dare, the crew paddled through the curl of a large wave and rode it back to shore.

“How exhilarating,” a silky voice trilled from beneath a pinstriped umbrella large enough to shade half of Fitzroy.

Phryne Fisher’s black cap of hair swirled untamed in the ocean breeze as she canted the umbrella over her shoulder. Her red pout was more seductive than a sunset. She wore a backless silk camisole the colour of cream and flowing trousers in a pattern of cream and green diamonds. A gauzy emerald scarf danced past her collarbones. The colour brought out the crystalline nature of her eyes – if one could spare a glance for her eyes.

Jack’s men circled her like gulls about a picnic lunch.

“Most fun you can have in the water!” Tom Finley said, dabbing a towel across his chiseled face. He leaned into her and whispered, “With your clothes on.”

Lonnie protested. “’S dangerous out there today, miss. Storm offshore’s closin’ in.”

“It is. But I reckon Miss Fisher likes a bit of danger.” Finley smiled like a shark and extended a hand. “Care to go for a spin?”

“Don’t mind I do!” Phryne reached out but Jack caught her by the wrist before she could make contact. His grip was light but firm.

“I sanctioned the _crew_ to practise, Miss Fisher,” Jack said tartly.

Phryne clucked her tongue. “Come now, Mr. Jones. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Must’ve left it on my troop transport.”

“Poppycock!”

“Look, I’m glad to see you enjoying our fair town’s hospitality but these men aren’t here on holiday. They’re meant to be training.”

“And that boat is meant for rescues,” she reasoned, pushing the unwieldy parasol into Jack’s hands so she could more easily skirt away from him and toward the surf boat. “I’m merely adding an element of realism.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Jack shouted, exasperation seeping from every pore.

“Sit here, between me and Errol.” Finley instructed, resolutely ignoring his coach’s glower. “It’s the safest place.” It was worth the hell he would catch later to give Miss Fisher a thrill – and he hoped she’d be amenable to others. “Trick is to maintain the center of gravity when she pitches and yaws. Same as horseback riding or skiing. It’s all in the balance. Reckon a lady like you has done a bit of both?”

He continued when Phryne confirmed his suspicion with a nod. “Good. You can hang on to that cleat if she gets too rough. Follow our lead and you’ll be safe as houses.”

Tom helped her into the boat before pushing the boat off the sand and leaping in. “Just one more thing,” he added, jangling the brass whistle that hung around his neck, “If you hear the whistle, abandon ship!”

Phryne was practically giddy.

Jack sighed heavily, spearing her parasol into the sand. Through the lenses of his binoculars, he watched them paddle out. The swells were large. And the rips tugged the craft too close for Jack’s comfort to an outcropping of rocks where the land curved into the small hook known as Point Danger.

His knuckles whitened when he lost sight of them for a wall of water. Pressing the glasses tighter to his eyes, he searched out the boat – and found it at long last, resembling a child’s tub toy as the crew steered it into a current between the waves that roared to shore. He blew out a breath of relief when his eyes then settled on their true target.

Phryne couldn’t have looked more at home if she had been borne of Viking blood. She had hitched her scarf to the horn cleat and was using it as a rein to steady herself against the constant pitching. The silk beach pyjamas that had, moments before, so languidly draped her frame were whipping against her skin. Her hair was a black riot, surrounding a countenance beaming with pure ecstasy, as a large swell lifted the stern.

 _If the crew was trying to impress her,_ she thought, _it was working_. Over her shoulder, Tom Finley was shouting orders and the young men shifted backward, throwing their weight over the crest of the whitecap. Paddles sliced furiously through the waves, surfing the craft toward the shoreline. Foam sprayed in jubilant fountains from _White Wings’_ bow as they rode the froth as naturally as a tern on thermal currents.

Jack saw Phryne’s mouth open, and could just imagine her shriek of sheer delight, buoyed by the rush of adrenaline through her veins - more powerful than any aphrodisiac. The corner of his lips dipped into a curve. To love her was to love this part of her, too. All he wanted to do in that moment was to capture that sound with his kiss – even if it meant abandoning his preference for speeds ‘round the upper limit of a milk cart. It propelled his feet through the wet sand, following the craft’s trajectory.

Jubilation carried on the breeze as Phryne spared no expense in complimenting the sturdiness of the craft and the skill of its crew. The effusive praise, along with her trust in their talents, cemented her place as the most beloved guest in town. Pride beamed bright on the young men’s faces even as they worked to beach the boat.

When the bow met land, the rest of the club helped the crew drag the belly of the boat up onto the sand – their tanned muscles churning like clockwork gears in well-practised synchronicity. But it was the long-limbed, limber jog approaching that most captured her attention - a treasured memory from Queenscliff made new because he was coming not for evidence this time, but for her.

Eager to shorten the distance between them, Phryne reached down to free her scarf from where she had yoked it to the boat. When she sat back up, Jack had frozen to the spot - appearing a very handsome fish out of water, goggle-eyed and gulping for breath. _Would he drink a witch’s potion and dance on knives for the chance to be with her?_ Shaking the faerie tale from her mind, she followed his gaze to where the sea spray had rendered her camisole virtually transparent.

Phryne had charms aplenty at her disposal. There was no salient reason to reveal what her namesake had bared to secure her freedom – not that Phryne would hesitate should the situation call for it. So she admired herself for a moment and, with an insouciant tick of her shoulder, draped the emerald scarf artfully around her shoulders.

A blush crept up the sides of Jack’s neck as her eyes dropped to the dark pink buds straining, pearlescent, against the wet silk. A secret smile hid in her lips before she arranged the scarf to preserve her modesty. The camouflage did little to cool the fire in Jack’s blood but at least he had regained the use of his legs.

The delay cost him, though, as it was Finley’s arm she took to step down from _White Wings_ , and Finley’s chest on which she laid a hand when the lad whispered some indecent proposal into her ear.

“Miss Fisher!” Jack called, as his men carried the surf boat back to the shed. “I expect now your thirst for excitement has been quenched, you’ll seek out other means of entertainment.”

He looked perfectly delicious standing there with his hands balled up, knuckles resting on his hips for lack of pockets in his swimwear.

“On the contrary, Mister Jones. The whole experience has left me feeling rather parched.” She closed the gap between them but did not touch. “Fortunately, Mister Finley offered to amuse me with a moonlit walk on the beach.”

“Phryne—”

“I’ll be careful,” she said so softly that only he and the wind could have heard. “But there is one problem.”

“What’s that?” he asked, eyebrows pinched in concern.

“I seem to be at a loss for entertainment until then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm planning to do a Tumblr post of my inspirations for this fic when I can catch a breath between work, RL, and Miss Fisher Con but this chapter was inspired by a random bit of research that totally drew me down a rabbit hole and I thought I'd share it now.  
> Check out this amazing video from a [1930s surf boat competition](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N9c1yXpM0QE)!  
> How could I not put Phryne square in the middle?!? XOXO, CG


	5. Chapter 5

Jack stretched out languidly on his bedclothes. Alone. They were not as posh as the linens he’d just experienced earlier in Phryne’s rental but given the disparity in the room rate, that only stood to reason.

She had bustled him out of her hotel (it had been closer) in much the same way she had smuggled him in – sneaking past the concierge so he could entertain her thoroughly and repeatedly on those decadently crisp sheets, until they were bathed in the rich amber light of late afternoon.

Returning to his own room across town, he had stripped to his skin and fallen asleep. The light, when he woke from his kip, had faded considerably—the hour confirmed by a glance at the wristwatch resting on his nightstand. He really ought to dress and go downstairs for dinner but he resisted for a few minutes longer, unwilling to relinquish the taste of her just yet.

Her nipples, chilled from the water, had been cold on his tongue – an exquisite contrast to the heat of her kisses. He had indulged in both. She’d tasted of salt and surf, the bitterness of her dusting powder, and the musky sweetness of her skin. The flavours danced on his palate, melding and twining with his own.

His fingertips drifted down his abdomen, seeking out the bruise Phryne had sucked on his hip – the ghost of her kiss haunting his flesh. The twinge of pain as he pressed upon it went straight to his cock, and he groaned.

But the invading thought of what he had left her to do brought him back to a reality that left him anything but aroused. Another glance at his watch elicited a disgruntled sigh. Jack reached for his trousers.

Phryne, meanwhile, walked along the foreshore toward the town square, sandals dangling from her fingertips as the surf bubbled across her toes. Overhead, clouds rolled like hillsides—a protean terrain bathed in a blaze of orange. “What first drew you to the water?”

Finley considered the question with more seriousness than she had expected.

“The mystery, I suppose. The danger. You’ve got to be on your guard, constantly reading the signs. Even then, the ocean can surprise you.” His knuckles grazed the back of her arm. “Not so different from the reasons I’m drawn to you.”

“You’re a little young to be playing this game, aren’t you Mister Finley?”

“I’m nineteen,” he replied easily. “Besides, I like women and they like me.” His fingers followed the line of her scarf up her shoulder and across the nape of her neck. He pulled them back, seemingly satisfied when he managed to coax a shiver from her. “You like me, don’t you, Miss Fisher? Why else would you have accepted my invitation?”

Instinctively, Phryne palmed the side of her thigh – reassured when her palm encountered the solid heft of her stiletto dagger’s hilt. She could feel Jack’s eyes upon her from his stakeout in the club’s bathing box but it was always preferable to take care of herself.

“I’ll admit a certain partiality to a man who’s confident in his abilities,” she smiled, giving nothing away. “Do you enjoy being a life saver?”

“I love it,” he said earnestly. “The sun, the surf—”

“The chance to be a hero?”

Finley’s smile was cheeky. “That, too.”

“Plenty of young ladies to impress down at the foreshore.”

“There’s only one I’m trying to impress right now.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” she scoffed playfully. “Not that I blame you. I’m sure the resulting hero worship is very satisfying. I’m not such a bad swimmer myself. Almost makes me want to try my hand at it.”

“That’s nothing to joke about, miss.” His tone made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

From his lookout, Jack noticed the change of her gait at once. He pressed his binoculars harder against his eye sockets. Her spine had stiffened, and the hem of her skirt was bunching on his far side. _Damn,_ he thought, _she’s going for the knife._ He toggled a switch to fold the glasses closed and slipped them into his pocket, stealthily approaching from Finley’s blindside.

“I wasn’t joking. Wasn’t your club about to have its very first lady life saver?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Finley started.

“I’m merely trying to ascertain what sort of man you are, Mister Finley.” Phryne feigned interest in a seashell to put some distance between them – the angle of her crouch advantageous for souveniring and dagger-extraction alike. “Perhaps you’re liberal-minded enough to meet a woman lust-for-lust in bed, but not so when it comes to skill-for-skill in the water?”

“Leave Marjie outta this.”

“Was that her name?” Phryne asked, her voice climbing ever so slightly as she feigned ignorance. “Did you love her?”

“No, I didn’t,” he spat. “Couldn’t tell that sheila anything she didn’t already know. Makes a huge bloody stink to be allowed to try out and then goes and drowns herself in the drink. It only proves that she had no business being on the squad in the first place! Not knowing enough to stay out of the water when you’re alone and half off yer face. I’d say she’d done us all a favour except it cost us our coach. Jones is alright but he isn’t Coach Naughton.”

“I wonder, Mister Finley, if you’ve considered the possibility that she wasn’t out here on her own?”

She measured him carefully as he appeared to ingest her words, chewing on his lip and swallowing roughly.

“I’ve had enough salt air for one day,” he replied at long last – putting a definitive end to her questioning. “Not right to leave you out here on your own. I’ll walk you back to the hotel.”

“I’m quite capable of looking after myself,” she informed him, spotting two familiar silhouettes passing through the ladies’ entrance of the public house door. “Goodnight, Mister Finley.”

Jack used to wonder just how far Phryne took the act of seduction for information. Despite her claim not to become _lustfully compromised_ during an investigation, it seemed to happen rather often. But he didn’t bother to hide his smile of self-satisfaction as he watched as Phryne peel away from Tom Finley to follow Miss Murray and Miss Beckwith into the pub.

Phryne surveyed the interior and found it to be quite adequate. It was a comfortable place, with a fireplace for use on windswept evenings and a décor of driftwood and seashell bric-a-brac that celebrated the pub’s proximity to the sea. She placed her drink order, and sipped cautiously, observing the young ladies where they sat at the polished counter. When the last of her whisky had been savoured, she called the barkeep back to her table and slipped him an extra bill.

“Compliments of the lady in the corner booth,” he told the young ladies, to their delighted surprise, topping off two glasses of lemon soda with a pull of frothy beer from the keg.

“The Honourable Phryne Fisher,” their benefactor pronounced with her hand extended, “I think it’s time we became better acquainted.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

The skies were overcast the next morning and the seas were rougher than usual. The storm the paper warned of had landed, and the tourists – deciding discretion was the better part of valour – heeded the warnings. Outside of a few men rock fishing, the shore was more or less deserted. It would be far too easy for his men to be complacent on a day like today.

“Alright Finley?”

The young man, for all his faults, had never once been late to a practise.

“Perfectly so, sir,” Finley lied in spite of his reddened eyes and sleepless night.

“Very well. Storm’s moved in so it’s beach drills this morning.”

“Yessir.”

“Boredom leads to fatal mistakes,” Archie Jones barked. His tendons formed long ridges traversing the backs of his hands as he gripped his field glasses to lead the squad through a series of techniques.

He taught them how to use their binoculars to sweep their assigned field, then to scan the sections of the field with repeated sweeps to detect potential danger – a trick he’d learned in the War and still employed on stakeouts. He incorporated small stretches and changes in posture every few minutes to help stave off lethargy.

“Engaging your mind in a peripheral task can help keep you alert,” he challenged them. “Consider a riddle or recite a favorite poem.”

Jack ignored the litany of rolling eyes, knowing very well that memorising Shakespeare’s body of work clearly wasn’t for everyone. “But beware distractions that could wholly divert your attention.”

Errol let out a low whistle of a breath. “I wouldn’t mind being diverted by that.” His field of vision had been overtaken by a pair of hips twisting artlessly against the pull of the sand, as Miss Fisher strode toward them from the back beach.

Today’s swimming costume was an emerald green masterpiece that would have rendered the old _Annette Kellermans_ a suit of armour by comparison. No modesty flap in sight, it snuggled tightly to her figure and ended just bare inches past the crease of her thighs. Two small peekaboo panels cut into the narrows of her waist to reveal her bare skin, and a geometric design was knitted in contrasting white stitching just below her lower ribs - presumably as a plausible alibi for drawing her admirers’ attention.

“Dear Lord,” Jack muttered, swallowing down the lust bubbling along his throat. He could just make out the small arcing shadows falling from the jut of her nipples against the solid expanse of colour covering her chest. A siren if ever there was one.

It was unwise to sail near rocky ground so early in their coupling. He lowered his binoculars and righted the tilt of his stalwart ship, choosing to focus on the two young women trailing her. He recognised them at once as the deceased’s constant companions, Susan Beckwith and Adeline Murray.

Both wore plain, black bathers that covered their arms to the elbows and legs to the knees but were otherwise a study in contrasts. Miss Beckwith’s blonde Eton crop shone a silvery-grey beneath the cloudcover. She was tall and lean and prone to tanning. Miss Murray had a high complexion and bore the fashionable curves of her mother’s generation. Her frizzy locks glowed vermilion with the diffusion of light.

Phryne cracked a grin as she approached. “Hallo, Mister Jones! It’s very nice to see you again.” Her voice was laden with innuendo as she waved a greeting to the squadron at large. “Don’t you ever give these boys a day off?”

“It wouldn’t do for me to go soft on them, Miss Fisher. Ah—” He studiously tried to ignore the wicked gaze she raked over him. “What I mean to say is, they’re already getting a pass on their laps today. That sea’s not fit for man nor beast.”

“Did you hear that, ladies?” she asked, throwing a pointed look over her shoulder toward her companions as they caught up to her. “As we are neither, I suppose it’s all ours.”

Jack spluttered, his mouth frozen open. Foolishly thinking she couldn’t be serious until he remembered who he was dealing with. “What?!”

“These girls need practise in sea-rescue.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jack replied flatly, unconsciously enlarging his stature by planting his hands on his hips. “The season’s nearly over.”

“What about replacing Marj?” demanded Susan Beckwith, mirroring the coach’s pose.

“That’s rich!” Tom Finley pushed his way past his teammates to confront the girl. “If anyone’s gonna replace that sheila, it’s gonna be Reg. He came in second place.” His likeminded mates assembled behind him like a mob.

“That’s because he’s a filthy, rotten cheater! If anyone’s taking Marjoram’s place as Torquay’s first lady life saver, it’ll be me!”

Phryne intervened, placing herself between the two huffing blondes – a hand on each of their forearms. “Who is this _Reg_ person?”

“Reginald Newscomb,” Jack replied, slipping back into detective mode. “I believe he works as a concierge at your hotel.”

“I see. What evidence do you have to support your accusation, Miss Beckwith?”

“None,” she said defiantly. “He was at least two lengths behind me on the last leg of the swim. The only way he could have caught up to me was to have cut the course. I reckon he never set a hand on that race buoy. Then, when we were neck-and-neck, he kicked me in the side and I lost my breath. He apologized later. Said it was an accident. But I don’t believe it for a minute – I saw the look on his face.”

Adeline Murray scowled. “Bad enough to be beaten by one girl, let alone _two_.”

Jack had worked enough domestics to know that affronts to the male ego could lead to far more dire consequences than a kick to the ribs. “That was before my time here. But—” He looked out into the faces of his charges, so there would be no misunderstanding. “That sort of behavior will not be tolerated on my patch. I’m sorry I can’t do more.” The girl met his gaze with hardened eyes.

“Perhaps you can, Mister Jones,” Phryne suggested.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you _are_ down one life saver.” She sidled a bit closer. “And, I know you wouldn’t want to put the public at risk with a lack of coverage. It would be well within your authority to fill that spot, wouldn’t it?”

Jack rolled his eyes. Managing a squad tryout for a group of hormonal teenagers was the last thing he needed, on top of the murder investigation. He’d have more luck herding kangaroos on dope.

“You never know what secret talents you might discover in the process,” Phryne prodded, and he saw their opportunity to lure Marjoram Tipton’s killer into the light as clearly as she did.

“Alright. But it’s not an open competition. If Mister Newscomb is still interested in vying for a club placement, he and Miss Beckwith may compete for it. Fair and square this time.”

“You can’t be serious, coach!” Finley exclaimed, looking between Archie Jones and Miss Fisher.

“If your friend is as good as he claims to be, Finley, he’ll have nothing to worry about. But speaking as someone who’s been to hell and back more times than I’d like to count…” Jack swallowed around the lump in his throat, steadfastly refusing to look toward Phryne—that particular tell had already burned him on more than one occasion. “Allow me assure you that a good partner is a gift. It can be the difference between life and death.”

Jack placed a sturdy hand on Tom’s shoulder. “If you can’t get past what’s between their legs, son,” he said quietly, “It will be your burden to bear. Alone.”

Phryne turned her face toward the water, allowing the sea breeze to dry the tears of pride in her eyes. The bark of Jack’s voice brought her back round. She did so love it when he asserted his authority.

“This Friday morning, before the next throng of holidaymakers arrive for the week end. Seven o’clock sharp.”

“Wonderful! I’ll assist with the preparations.” Phryne exclaimed. “I organized a ladies’ championship tennis tournament in Melbourne, you know.”

Jack had to work very hard to suppress a smirk. “That gives you two days to prepare, not counting today. No one’s going out in these conditions.”

_That tone really only meant one thing._

“I’ll be the judge of that, Mister Jones.” Phryne pulled a ruched bathing cap from her décolletage to protect her hair from the harsh saltwater. “Race you to the end of the jetty. If you win, we’ll all pack up and head home. If I win, the girls can swim.”

Miss Beckwith and Miss Murray exchanged a loaded expression. They’d only recently made Miss Fisher’s acquaintance but they approved of her thoroughly.

Meanwhile, chatter broke out amongst the young men of the life saving club, and Jack was more than aware that she had him just precisely where she wanted him. He could hardly preach about fairness between the sexes and refuse her challenge now.

“This isn’t a game, Miss Fisher! It’s simply not safe!”

“With or without you,” she said placidly. “You decide.” She began twisting at the waist to limber up. Right, then left, then right again. The play of the muscles beneath her skin was hypnotic. She laced her fingers and stretched her arms over her head. “Ladies, please count me in.”

“Righto, Miss Fisher!” chanted Susan. “On three! One…”

“Two,” chimed Adeline, as Miss Fisher poised herself to run at the waves.

“Alright, alright,” Jack relented, trying his damnedest not to mind the knowing grin she wore. “No one is going in that water alone.” He took up a position a few yards from her as the ranks closed in behind them to watch.

“I expect a clean race, Miss Fisher. No interference and no tricks. We swim to the end of the far jetty and not a stroke further. If one of us falls into trouble, the race is off. Do you agree to my terms?”

“On my honour, Mister Jones,” Phryne replied.

The start was counted off once more, sand flying at the cry of, “Three!” as the racers sprinted toward the sea. Cheers went up from all directions, urging on each competitor. Joining the girls in barracking for Miss Fisher was Errol. It earned him a pair of suspicious glares from the girls and a withering look from Finley.

“You’re a traitor, Errol!”

The muscled brunette accounted for his change in loyalty with a shrug and a grin. Lonnie Harris was quick to join him, urging Miss Fisher on with shouts of encouragement.

Jack dove into the breaking surf first – his long stride giving him a head start – and threw long strokes to pull himself through the breakers. Phryne waited a fraction of a second longer, timing her entry until the last wave of the set had crashed, diving into the lull. She propelled beneath the surface. Years of practise allowed her to hold her breath for long minutes, and she used a special kick to move her through the water – making her swimming style akin more to a seal than a human.

The water churned angrily around her. Jack was right – these conditions could prove deadly even to an experienced swimmer. Phryne came up for air and dove beneath another curl, counting off the waves crashing violently above her. Then she felt it, a small tug of water to her left that meant the rip current was headed out to deeper water. She charged into its path and let it carry her forward. It was always Phryne’s preference to work smarter than harder – and so much the better now that the weather was turning for the worse. The wind was blowing in from the east.

At the halfway mark, she’d nearly caught up to Jack. He was a clean swimmer. As in most everything else he did, Jack was focused. Disciplined. His arms didn’t fight against the breakers with unnecessary force. His strokes were elegant and near silent as his hands sliced through water in a steady rhythm. The sight warmed her against the chill of the sea.

Surging forward – her head just missing his feet as they kicked behind him – she positioned herself into his slipstream. It allowed her to conserve her energy as Jack pulled her along with him. When the finish line was in sight, she would sprint off him and clear the finish by a stroke. It was a cheeky maneuover but all was fair in love and swimming – especially when she considered how much Jack liked to tease her about manly strength versus womanly intelligence. In order for it to succeed, however, she would have to do a much better job of ignoring the way his thighs were pistoning in the water.

Just the thought of _not looking_ made her glance forward in hopes of catching a glimpse of that marvelous derrière. That was when she saw it – the dark, menacing swell burgeoning ahead.

Phryne looked toward Jack again. His stroke was steady – which could only mean he hadn’t seen it.

“Jack!” she shouted.

But her timing was all wrong. He was between breaths, hanging his head in the water. _She needed to think!_ If she slowed down at all, she would lose him. The jetty was close. If she pulled him under at the wrong time, he could run out of breath but if she waited, she risked them both getting pummeled by the wave or breaking on the wooden pilings.

She flung her arm in front of her head, grasping blindly for his foot as she continued to kick forward, and found nothing but seawater. Once more she reached, this time with her left hand, and felt the ribbing of his sole beneath the pads of her fingertips.

“Phryne!” The admonishment came amid a bout of spluttering. He spun himself in the water to face her. “No cheating!”

“Hold your breath!” she commanded, pointing toward the wall of water, then used all of her weight to push him down by the shoulders.

“Where’d they go?” Lonnie asked worriedly as he scanned the fizzling foam-topped water for any sign of the two swimmers.

“They’ll pop up.” Speaking with far more calmness than she felt, Susan grabbed for Lonnie’s field glasses. “Any second now.”

“Should we get the reel?” Errol suggested.

The furious current shuttled Jack beneath the surface like so much flotsam and jetsam, where he was unable to discern which way lay the sky. He hadn’t felt this disoriented since he’d contracted a contact high after opening the boot of a dope-smuggler’s car without wearing gloves. He could only hope that his current situation didn’t end with hallucinations and a three day stay-over at hospital. He relaxed his body, refusing to waste his energy to fight against the roiling ocean soup, and let a slow trickle of carbon dioxide expel from his burning lungs.

Phryne lost Jack when the massive wave crashed over them. The force sending her tumbling, tail over teakettle, until she was met with the solidness of the seafloor. Marshalling her legs beneath her, she pushed off and shot toward the surface.

The weather had deteriorated further in the few minutes she had been submerged, and panic began to flutter in her chest. She had been the one to goad him out in these conditions. If something happened… _No. That wasn’t the way to think._ She searched for Jack before deciding to swim for the jetty. If she could climb one of the pilings to the pier, she’d have a better vantage point. Another large swell was building, spotted in her peripheral vision as she had come up for air, and she dove beneath the break just in time to be jettisoned out the back.

Foam bubbled from the last set of breakers when she reached the jetty. Hoping to gain enough traction to lift herself out of the water, Phryne wound her legs around the piling and dug her fingertips into the wet wood. She shimmied up a few inches and readjusted her grip when a dark form caught her eye. One piling over, something had broken through the surface. It began to splutter.

“Jack!” Abandoning all pretense in relief, she dropped back into the water.

“There they are!” called Finley, pointing to the jetty. “Second piling from the end. They look alright— Uh—” He coughed on the sudden dryness of his mouth. “More than alright.”

Errol nudged his friend lightly in the ribs. “I think your Miss Fisher’s sweet on Coach Jones.”

“Dunno what she sees in the old man,” Finley huffed.

“If you don’t,” Lonnie piped up, “Then she really is outta your league.”

“Phryne!” he croaked between kisses. She had pinned him against the pier, allowing the water to buoy his weight as she crushed her mouth to his. “Phryne! I need to breathe.”

“I thought—” She reached up and pushed his wet hair from his eyes, and he caught her hand.

His expression softened when he saw the flicker of fear in her eyes. “I’m fine. Maybe a bit more manhandled than I’m used to.”

Phryne squeezed her thighs tighter around him and tugged his lower lip with her teeth. “We’ll just have to toughen you up, then.” She let her hand drop from his shoulder to his arse. Her fingers found bare skin, and her gasp turned into a cackle when he yelped at the unexpected sensation.

“Jack! What on earth happened to your bathing suit?”

He reached behind to find the seat of his bathers torn to shreds – his backside exposed to the elements – and swore.

“Must’ve happened when I collided with the jetty.”

“Lucky it wasn’t your head. Perhaps Archie Jones is less prone to head trauma than Jack Robinson.”

“A head injury would be less humiliating than this—” he glanced over his shoulder and grimaced, “—situation.”

“Nonsense,” she purred, unable to resist cupping the muscled flesh in her hand. “One should never be ashamed of such an admirable asset.”

He pulled his lips into a strict line. It really was inadvisable to encourage her.

Shoulder to shoulder, they made their way to shore – where they were greeted with whoops and hollers. A moon-eyed Adeline produced Miss Fisher’s straw bag, from which was promptly extracted a large towel.

With the artlessness of a seasoned performer, Phryne angled her body as to hide Jack’s torn bathers from view. “Mister Jones was right,” she said, daubing her face with the towel before passing it to Jack, who quickly secured it around his waist. “The conditions are far too treacherous for swimming.”

“But one of you must have won, miss.” Adeline pressed.

“We’ll call it a draw,” Phryne prevaricated, “But there are other means to build skill. Everyone is invited to tonight’s dance ball at the Two Bays, as my guests.”

“Performing a Lindy Hop is unlikely to save any lives, Miss Fisher,” Jack said dryly. “Though it will certainly be enjoyable to watch.”

“I’ve always found dancing to be a worthwhile athletic endeavor…” she clucked, her eyes sliding down his soaking form “…requiring deft muscular coordination, a keen sense of timing, and, if you’re lucky, a partner who elevates your heartrate.”

“Will you save a dance for me, Miss Fisher?” Errol asked hopefully.

“There’s a dance for everyone who wants one,” Phryne promised, prompting another round of cheers.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phryne's swimsuit design was drawn from the swimsuit Bette Davis wore in the 1932 film, "Three On a Match". Prepare to swoon, and take a [ peek here](https://www.townandcountrymag.com/style/fashion-trends/g2229/swimsuits-through-the-decades/?slide=11).
> 
> Annette Kellerman was a champion Australian swimmer in the early 1900s, who pioneered a bespoke line of [ formfitting one-piece swimming costumes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Annette_Kellermann#/media/File:Annette_Kellerman1.jpg) so she could compete properly. The swimsuit revealed very little skin but was, naturally, declared heresy.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was amazing to meet so many of you at the 2018 Miss Fisher Con last week!! Unfortunately, jet lag is a beast. Apologies for the delay in posting. XOXO, CG  
>   
> 

Later that evening, the Two Bays’ ballroom was awash in soft pink light.

This was a dance she particularly enjoyed – an interrogation conducted from beneath a veil of sooty black lashes, where questions were adorned in attentive wrappings and festooned with flirtatious ribbons – where she, herself, was a curiosity to be surveyed.

It was that precise thought which had prompted her fingers to walk past the mercurial silk charmeuse hanging in the armoire _(too predictable)_ and select the sleeveless jersey evening dress instead. The dress was arresting in its modernity – ahead of its time. Midnight blue and cut on the bias, its only adornment was a rivulet of pale green crepe inset at her collarbones to rush over the round of each shoulder to snake tightly about her waist before finally plunging like falling water past the bank of her hips.

The gown itself quickly ranked among her most effective detecting tools, drawing people in to ask her about its design, where she was from, and where she had traveled – and in so doing, they opened up about themselves and the town, and its inhabitants. Her grey silk purse hung heavily from her elbow with the weight of her revolver but none of her dancing partners seemed to mind.

The young men of the life saving club held Phryne true to her promise of a dance for each of them. The burly Errol was very pleasant company, surprisingly light on his feet with a keen eye for details and an even keener ear for gossip. From Lonnie Harris, she’d souvenired a bruised toe _and_ corroboration of her suspicion that Tom Finley had been rebuffed repeatedly by Marjoram Tipton. A swollen toe was a small price to pay for that kind of information.

Jade earrings dangled from her lobes, the matching ornament glittered in her hair, as Miss Fisher found herself being whisked, once again, across the parquet floor. Unfortunately, the one man she’d hoped very much to dance with had not yet arrived. Her eyes sought the crowd for Jack’s familiar crest of brilliantined hair as she reached for a champagne coupe.

It was intercepted by Thaddeus Murphy, the grey-haired town doctor - _Ted, please, Miss Fisher -_ who snagged her outstretched hand and pulled her into a waltz.

“I wondered if I might have the pleasure, after your encounter with the bluebottle yesterday.” He was a pleasant-looking man, with clever eyes and rosebud lips just hidden beneath a gleaming moustache. An air of expectation hung about him. Intrigue prickled her skin like the moments just before a thunderstorm erupted.

“And I forgot how fast news travels in a small town,” she volleyed. “A small sting isn’t much to complain about, considering what’s happened in these waters.” Her voice dropped to hushed tones. “I heard a young woman drowned in them not long ago. Did you know her?”

“I did.” Dr. Murphy’s mouth pulled into a grimace. “Anyone who didn’t know her certainly knew _of_ her. Marjoram Tipton had made a name for herself. Not just here in Torquay, mind. Her antics were featured the regional papers.”

“Antics?” Phryne was unable to keep the irritation out of her voice. She placated her temper by watching Susan Beckwith chew on a grin as Lonnie attempted to lead her through a series of complicated steps.

“I thought she merely wanted to the opportunity to become a life saver in the local club? Wasn’t she a champion swimmer?”

“Yes, well,” the doctor fidgeted with her hand as they stepped through three-quarter time. “Some people aren’t quite ready to accept the changing place of women in the world.”

“I believe it will change whether they accept it or not,” she replied.

In the corner of the hall, Tom Finley was staring daggers at her. His knuckles whitened around a leather-bound silver hip flask before offering it to the pretty girl at his side who – until that moment – had captured none of his attention. _Mrs. Watson’s daughter_ , her memory supplied, who wasn’t much older than Jane. Tess Watson tepidly accepted the offer and took a drink.

“But at what price, Miss Fisher?” The doctor’s tone was grave. “I heard you challenged Archibald Jones to a swimming race earlier today.”

“Mister Jones and I have since come to an understanding.”

“Don’t take me for a fool,” he warned, tightening his grip on her waist. “Half the town’s talking about it. But they don’t know who you really are… A _lady detective_.”

Phryne steeled her nerves and wondered if she would have cause to extract the pearl-handled dagger from her garter – she really hated the thought of mussing this dress. “Despite whatever you may think, Doctor, I am here on holiday.”

Dr. Murphy looked anything but convinced. “I have no desire to up-end your cover, my dear, but you’ve managed to put yourself in the centre of some very nasty business.”

“You don’t believe Marjoram’s death was an accident.” Phryne’s gaze narrowed in appraisal.

The doctor’s steel blue eyes were intense, even behind his spectacles. “Are you aware of the circumstances surrounding the girl’s death?”

Phryne decided to proceed with her own brand of caution, giving away nothing that wasn’t easily obtainable through ballroom gossip. “The coroner’s report said she was intoxicated when she drowned. Apparently, she and her friends had been out celebrating her achievement… But, by all accounts, it doesn’t sound as though she’d overindulged.”

“Ah, Miss Fisher, that’s what the eyewitnesses say. Miss Tipton could have gotten a hold of some sly grog.”

As the only medical professional in town, Dr. Murphy would be aware of similar instances of bootleg alcohol poisoning. Phryne minced no words in asking if he had.

Dr. Murphy looked at her like she had passed a test. “I’m glad to see your reputation is well deserved. One never knows about these things until he experiences it for himself.”

“Or _herself_ ,” Phryne amended, deciding in that moment to test her intuition. “Did you whet your appetite for intelligence during the war? Or is it merely a hobby to pass the time between treating sunburns and jellyfish stings?”

He smiled openly at her. “Both.”

“Why are you telling me all this? Why not the police?” she asked, thinking he could very well be sending her on a wild goose chase.

“Because the police were all too happy to close this case. And because your methods are—”

She fixed him with an arch of her brow.

“—Flexible,” he finished. “I’m not just some country doctor, Miss Fisher. I have privileges at Geelong Hospital.”

“That’s where the girl’s body was sent for examination.”

“Mmm. The coroner never sent the alcohol content for further testing.”

“How do you know this?” Phryne asked.

“Because the man’s a buffoon. Prizes easy answers over a thorough investigation. Though I suppose it’s safer to have him working on the dead than the living.”

“That’s not all,” she prodded.

“I could lose my license if anyone less discreet were to find out.”

The waltz was coming to a close. Aware of the throng of admirers waiting for the next dance, Phryne brought her hand to the doctor’s cheek – a gesture that advertised a certain intimacy, and also served to keep prying eyes from reading his lips. “Tell me.”

“I found the sample in a cart bound for the incinerator… and nicked it. Her drink was definitely adulterated but it wouldn’t have been immediately evident to the examiner.”

“Why not?”

Dr. Murphy dipped her gently. “Methanol has all the characteristics of ethanol – the alcohol in liquor. Its signature side effect is the production of formaldehyde but it wouldn’t have turned up until it hours later, after it had been metabolized. Despite that, it would have significantly dampened Miss Tipton’s central nervous system.”

“That could explain how a champion swimmer so easily drowned in what was reported to be relatively calm waters,” Phryne surmised.

“Whether it was done with the intent to kill is the question you must now answer.” Pulling her to standing, he brought her hand to his lips to brush a kiss against it. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Fisher.”

Phryne, deep in thought, ignored the longing gazes of a dozen hopeful young men to finally secure a well-deserved glass of champagne.

A deep voice sounded behind her, causing a curl of flame to lick through her stomach.

“Looks like I’m late for our waltz.”

“Mister Jones.” She smiled to herself but did not turn, choosing instead to bow her head to sip her drink – giving him a delicious view of her hairline and beyond, where the fine bones of her neck disappeared beneath the collar of her gown. “I was beginning to wonder if you took my invitation for folly. You’ve already missed _two_ waltzes.”

Jack didn’t need to see her face to imagine the pout sitting upon her lips. “Had a call from my Uncle Tate up in Melbourne,” he explained, counting on Phryne to recognise the surname of his chief. “He likes me to check in with him now and again. Though I can’t imagine you’ve had a shortage of dance partners, Miss Fisher. Not in this dress.” His knuckles ghosted along the sash at her waist. “Lethal… for the record.”

It was then that she spun round, craving the lust in his eyes. Phryne had taken a moment to pull the lengths of that sash through her hands as she had dressed, imagining the feeling of Jack pulling them open as she wished he’d done with a spool of golden tulle all those months ago.

“Good thing there’s a doctor in the house.” She grinned, drinking him in. The sight of Jack in his navy suit and peacock blue silk tie warmed her more than the bubbly ever could.

“From my vantage point, Doctor Murphy looked close to an apoplexy himself,” Jack teased.

“Sweet of you to say—” she simpered “—but that’s probably less to do with my charms than you think.”

Jack cocked his eyebrow, and she threaded her arm through his to tug him out of the ballroom.

“We should find a more… intimate place to discuss it.”

Tucking them into an alcove just off the foyer, Phryne proceeded to recount Dr. Murphy’s discovery.

“Methanol can be used as a fuel, among other things,” Jack offered.

Jack’s near encyclopaedic knowledge of the sciences had long stopped surprising her but not pleasing her. She grinned, excitement burning behind her eyes. “And illicit liquor, for another.”

“By the unscrupulous, yes. It’s easy enough to come by, and virtually undetectable when mixed into an alcoholic drink.” Jack’s lips pulled into a tight line. “The American government added it to industrial alcohols that were stolen and resold during prohibition to stop people from drinking them. It killed thousands and injured more. If Marjoram Tipton drank that before entering the water, it’s little wonder she drowned.”

“My thoughts precisely. Now the question is, who gave it to her.”

He raised an eyebrow in suspicion. “I can’t help notice Mister Finley seems to be keeping a wide berth. Was that by your design?”

Phryne shook her head. “We danced before you arrived. He’s currently plying his charms on another guest.”

“Hmmm. Not entirely surprising. Did he divulge anything interesting?”

“Only a rather bold invitation to take our foxtrot off the floor.”

Jack stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and rolled his eyes with his whole head. “If Finley killed for his beliefs on a woman’s place in society, it seems odd that he would still be interested in pursuing you… ah… romantically after that scene at the beach this morning.”

“I don’t think romance has a thing to do with it. Tom Finley strikes me as the type of man who’s used to getting exactly what he wants. Would he have had access to the poison?”

“It’s not that difficult to come by. Any number of garages might stock it. So, you think his arguments against women on the squad is a cover? For what purpose?”

“Thwarted love, what else?” she exclaimed. “According to young Mister Harris, Marjoram turn Finley’s advances down on numerous occasions. Perhaps his ego took a fatal blow when his charming smile and prurient appeal had no effect.”

“Fatal for Marjoram Tipton, you mean.” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where does that leave us?”

“With a trap to bait, of course.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“The element of surprise is on my side,” she reasoned. “Not to mention my secret weapon.”

“Your pearl-handled pistol?” His hands came to rest, warm and heavy, on her waist – protective and tender and desirous all at once.

Phryne’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You.”

For the slightest of moments, his visage morphed into an expression of pure joy that transformed him into another man entirely.

“Relying on the police?” he recovered. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type, Miss Fisher.”

“Oh, I’ve learnt that the right sort of policeman is very handy to have about,” she purred, fingering his lapel to better feel the rapidly increasing rise and fall of his chest. “But, as he’s currently serving as the town’s swim coach... I suppose I’ll just have to work on my stroke.”

She tipped onto her toes and caught the back of his head with her hand, capturing his lips to thread her tongue through his mouth.

“Phryne,” he pleaded, hungry for more than their meagre hiding place could afford them. “Your room…”

“Not so fast, Mister Jones. You owe me a dance. I simply can’t abide a man who doesn’t pay his debts.”

“You intend to draw Finley out in a jealous rage?”

“That makes it sound terribly premeditated, Archie. More like, inviting him to make a mistake. Besides—” She traced the round of his collar until her fingertips met at the perfectly immaculate knot of his tie. “You look positively delicious tonight, and I mean to show you off before devouring you. Thoroughly. And repeatedly.”

A filthy smirk flitted across his lips. “I’m looking forward to settling up, then.”

Phryne’s gaze lingered on that changeable mouth – as soft and pliant as it could be hard and demanding – and shivered, thinking of all its delights now hers to discover.

“As am I.” Turning on the ball of her foot, she sashayed out of reach before sparing him a devastating glance over her shoulder to ensure he was following the sway of her arse down the corridor.

Struggling to maintain his gait, Jack tugged down the front of his suit jacket. She was going to kill him if she kept looking at him like that…

…And quite possibly herself because when a young lady staggered into her, both women crashed to the floor in a heap. He was at her side in a moment, helping to extricate her from beneath the girl’s dead weight.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phryne's dress was indeed ahead of its time... It wasn't made until 1933. (Like I could deny this beauty once I saw it.) I took the liberty of altering the colouration of this gorgeous Madeleine Vionnet evening gown to better reflect the palette of the story (and because I can't resist Phryne in navy). Where the actual dress is black, Phryne's is midnight blue; where the sash is vermillion, Phryne's is a pale, jade green. Lethal, indeed.
> 
>  


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